Aerial
by antepathy
Summary: The Fallen insists upon a ritual to consolidate the Decepticons' nascent power.  Slash.


Aerial A/N written for the kink meme, 'Megatron/Starscream: 'sex as a religious experience'' Bayverse, set after Defiance but still, obviously, on Cybertron. I rather like how it came out, so...I inflict it on y'all. It is slash and it is sticky, so please just skip over this one if those bother you.

"Do you wish to be Prime?" The Fallen's voice, susurrus, tempting, seemed to lurk in Megatron's memory cortex, ambushing his ambition. Even though his Master had a body now, he still existed, in some ways, as that shadowy voice. "Do you?"

Megatron had rejected the question the first dozen times. He was the High Lord Protector. He needed no other rank nor honor. Until the aliens had attacked and shown him, in vivid colors, lines so sharp they cut his optics, that the Council was corrupt.

It had all snapped into focus then—not just the Council, but the whole way of life. Little things that had escaped his notice, hypocrisies, inconsistencies. Complaining about money to provide training or services for the troops…while they sat in luxury, limbs oiled with the finest oil, polished to a high gleam. Even the face of threat had done nothing to their determination—if anything, they clung harder to their vapid intellectualism. Pursuing archaeology and arts of leisure instead of war as if they still had time.

And then, the Fallen's voice had come again. "Do you wish to be Prime?" and it had seemed like the only answer. And then the idea had taken hold.

"Yes," he said, aloud, hearing the echo in his external audio as if it were some confirmation, a blessing. Yes. He did wish to be Prime. He would lead Cybertron from its ages of softness and corruption, from its glittering, brittle gems of life and light surrounded by darkness and squalor, to a new age where all could stand in sunlight, proven and strong. No weakness, no corruption, all of those purged in the crucible of war.

That was his vision, and the Fallen took that vision and made it live in his cortex, until he could nearly feel the rays of a new sun warming his armor, feel the vitality from the city around him the way one could sense Life Itself, as some sort of palpable forcefield or aura, around soldiers just returned from combat. To know life that intimately, to feel her clutch you in her arms, to remember that embrace—that was worthiness. That was what he wanted; what Cybertron needed. To return life's embrace instead of hiding in glittering domesticated cubes of cities, tied to an endless, stultifying cycle of toil and vapid amusement.

The voice subsided, satisfied. It said no more, but showed him a date, a few solars hence, and a planetary conjunction—the burnt husk of the Cybertronian sun aligning with two other planets. Megatron did not know what it meant, but he would not stoop to ask. He merely kept the information, as he would a battle plan, confident that when the time came, he'd know what to do.

[***]

Starscream sighed, aggrieved, looking at the battered equipment he'd gathered for the repair bay. He hoped it would be good enough. He hoped it would be enough. Since the fissure, since Megatron had decreed their cause more just, and the newly-styled 'Autobots' had coalesced, the funding and resources that were required to keep an army merely functional, much less effective, had choked. And he had had to resort to make-do measures like this—pilfering supplies in raids on his own kind, only to dump them in the hands of half-trained medics, all of the previous medics suddenly discovering something they called 'consciences' and refusing to fix injuries caused by other Cybertronians, as if that were abetting a crime. Choosing whom to heal, in Starscream's mind, was choosing whom to hurt by omission.

"You doubt?"

Starscream twitched, the rudder flaps on his vertical stabilizers riffling with surprise. He turned his head. The Fallen stood, materialized, silent, as if he had been there forever.

In a way, he probably had, the jet mused. The Fallen had seen everything, the entire course of Cybertronian history unfold from where he had been imprisoned in his stone tomb, his essence stripped of a body, encased in immutable stone. Torment Starscream could not imagine.

"I doubt my ability to endure," he said, quietly. "I fear letting my troops down. I do not doubt our cause." He silenced himself, aware that the Fallen's dark presence troubled him, stirred up this need to fill the air with sounds, to betray himself.

He felt the Fallen's optics study him, seeing through his armor, it seemed, seeing through his pretense.

"You need not doubt." The Fallen, deliberately veiling himself in gnomic speech.

"Need doesn't dictate everything," Starscream returned. The Fallen was not the only one who could veil his words.

"You feel…bound."

Starscream's shoulder spines prickled. He did. A warrior, with his Vosian heritage, did not raid his own. Did not stoop to petty pilfering merely to survive.

"I can show you something more."

Starscream rocked, uneasily, on his bronze footplates. He sometimes doubted that the Fallen was real—that perhaps he was merely some malign hallucination, a folie a deux shared by the Decepticon high command, some evil genius or daimon of ambition. It was a more logical explanation than anything else for the way that the Fallen could cut to the core of every hidden desire.

Starscream looked around the repair bay, at the ground frames who, even while injured, were limping to sort the materials he'd brought—one, lacking an arm, was letting others load his good arm with cleansing rags. Another had folded himself into his vehicle mode, one with a hole blasted through the cabin, while others loaded him with sheet metal, wire insulation, and plasma patches. One tripped on a slipping bandage of binding tape, but was caught by a companion. All of them working together, ignoring their injuries.

"Will it help us all?" Stealing was low, but this…was lower. Degrading. No mech should have to live like this. And if he could save them?

"Yes."

Starscream frowned, stooping quickly to help right a repair cradle from the tangle of materials he'd brought. He nodded, but when he turned to say 'yes,' the Fallen was gone.

[***]

Starscream shivered. The Fallen's long fingers trailed over his armor, trailing crimson paint in a series of intricate designs. It looked complex, characters in some ancient language. Down his arms, over his chassis, curling over his thighs. It was just paint, wasn't it? But why did it seem to tingle through his armor, as if the touch seeped into his circuitry?

"You," the Fallen said, calmly, his voice silky, seductive, "have dominion of the heavens. Your kind can sail the ether between the stars. You are the soaring spirit of Cybertron."

The blandishments rang a little grandiose, even to Starscream, sounding more like the flat phrases of some ancient ritual than sincere praise. Starscream stood, his cortex awhirl with the heady praise, the gentle, feathering touches of the long fingers along his armor.

"What must I do?" he asked, finally. He had been obedient to his orders, shown when the Fallen had summoned, ready, if not eager, to follow through. The Fallen said this would help them all.

The Fallen looked up from where he had bent, tracing a series of spidery characters down Starscream's ankle. "Fly, warrior. The heavens are yours. Own them."

[***]

Starscream carved the upper atmosphere, slicing the air, his engines pushing him in flawless vectors.

It had been too long since he'd flown like this, for the sheer, pure joy of flight, for the fierce pleasure of mastering the air, of the minute, precise control. It was as though he had forgotten this part of himself.

The Autobots, in Simfur, spread out beneath him like a carpet of jewels, had fired up at him warily at first, waiting for the strike, waiting for bombs, waiting for him to unleash the kinds of assault for which he had become infamous.

He did not strike.

Instead, he pushed through the dense atmosphere in daring arabesques, loosening into the sheer pleasure of movement, dancing with gravity, soaring upward until his engines stalled, letting himself tumble and flip, his frame flashing in the half-light refracting up from the city below.

His red markings seemed to glow, luminesce in the light, as if shining Starscream's raw emotion in visible form.

The skies were his, as the Fallen had said. No single other engine buzzed in the air, no other presence. He reigned in the skies over Simfur, radiant, glorious, pushing himself beyond his limits, shedding the narrow confines of work, and rank, and war, becoming a pure being of air, the spirit of the skies made manifest.

[***]

Megatron did not fly as well as Starscream. He was not a creature of the air, despite his aerial form. But he could fly well enough.

Or so he'd thought until he watched the bronze shape write an exquisite symphony across the sky, something so breathtaking, so beautiful that even the Autobots had lain down their weapons and suspicions and merely…stared.

"You understand your role," the Fallen prompted.

"Yes." Megatron frowned at the symbols in blue that the Fallen was painting on him. "Is this necessary?"

The Fallen paused, merely tilting his head in response.

Megatron grunted, letting his optics drift back to the spectacle of the bronze jet. His Air Commander, yes. He'd never seen the jet as anything but. Competent, yes. A trifle arrogant, holding the ancient traditions of his kind with an elitist aloofness that chafed. Lineage meant nothing to Megatron, though it did to Starscream; even Megatron could not deny, however, that the jet's performance asserted everything he believed about the individual, as though this legacy and pride had boosted the jet forward, arrogance coupled with ability.

Legacy, history meant nothing in comparison with what a mech could do himself. Privilege was to be earned, not descended through ages and lineages. That was the tendril of corruption, pushing toward the surface.

"He has been prepared?" The effect was…entrancing, the unconscious rapture in the jet's acrobatics, wheeling and diving. It was how they were meant to be. Not the 'freedom' that the Autobots preached, which was merely a slavery in cubicles, a cushioned servitude. He felt something stir in him, ancient and deep.

A strange laugh. "The ground must take the air," the Fallen murmured.

Another grunt. Fine. Megatron was not a mech who had much faith in things outside himself, outside the proof of his own abilities. But the Fallen had done things, told him things…he could not doubt. He had no reason to doubt. This felt…right, at a level below consciousness, as if an old system were firing on, or some ancient protocol correcting across sector walls.

"It will be," the Fallen said, confidently, as if the outcome were already assured, "magnificent. It will begin the birth of the new Cybertron, where the individual supersedes the masses."

Yes. The age of the individual. Personal worth and merit. Megatron's optics flickered shut, feeling warm licks of desire, like shimmers reaching him from this vision of the perfect future. The one he would help birth.

If there was a cue or signal, he didn't see it, launching himself in the air solely by some internal sign.

He was no Starscream, no Vosian warrior lineage. He could not dance with the air as the jet did. His flight was powerful, but straightforward. His greater mass and shorter wings made him incapable of the more breathtaking stunts. He felt…huge and massive, like a brick being thrown rather than a jet skimming along the air's currents, skating with it like a lover touching an endless bliss.

[***]

And Starscream, just like that, was not alone in the skies anymore: Megatron's intricate frame barreled through the air toward him, as if determined on catching him out. The Autobots below seemed to give a cry—an apprehensive warning or of anticipation. Starscream's highly-attuned sensors noted the way the air eddied and skirled around Megatron's exterior, so unlike the smooth surfaces of Starscream's own wingspan. Slow and graceless, and yet exuding raw power, as if the will of the planet were incarnate.

The spinning, spiraling air currents were intoxicating to watch.

Starscream gave a strange cry—half joyous, half taunting, and took off, zipping over the city's glitter in a spinning scissor.

Megatron followed, weaving among his contrails, slower, but deft enough, cutting short arcs through Starscream's wilder ones, gaining on him slowly, but steadily, substituting wiles for dexterity.

Starscream whirled, aiming starward , pushing his engines to maximum, not fleeing so much as feeling out Megatron's capabilities, testing them, with no limits, against the proud lineage of Vos.

He heard the roar of the triple-changer's engines, blasting through the air, determined to give no quarter, no advantage. Starscream felt the optics of his leader burning on his thrusters, the Autobots below, transfixed.

He let himself stall, rolling to the left at the top of the thrust, tumbling end over end, ground rushing up at him, air screaming in his audio, before he kicked his thrusters on again, throwing his ailerons to drive lift, clawing the air.

Three hard, sharp thumps on his fuselage, three little bites into his armor. Megatron, catching him on the ascent, deployed his small grapples against Starscream. The bronze jet found himself reeled in, belly to belly.

For a long moment they spun wildly, veering across the open sky, Megatron's power warring with Starscream's precise control. Starscream felt his spark leap, something like panic mixing with heady desire, Megatron's EM field pounding against his, a tattoo of arousal.

The ground seemed to race up to them, Starscream's vector proximity alarms howling red at him, numbers on his altimeter racing down so fast that the readout blurred. He slammed his steering onto one side, throwing open his ailerons along with a burst of speed, pulling desperately up, grinding his frame against Megatron's.

Megatron's frame burst outward, shifting midflight. Dampness in the air cast ribbons of white mist from his shoulders, the grapples against the bronze jet morphing into hands. His armor's intricate shapes jabbed into the jet's.

Starscream, not to be held, helpless, in his alt, threw himself into his own bipedal mode, thrusters shifting to his back. Too close, his armor hooked and joined with Megatron's. The balance between them altered, dramatically. They lurched over the sky, Starscream's hands scrabbling against where Megatron's armor had hooked into his.

Megatron gave a lopsided smirk. He could not find a way to bridge the gap from the now to what he needed to do. Order? The jet might obey, but he didn't think that was right for the ritual as the Fallen intended. And he didn't see himself risking the rejection of asking. He would not come this far to be shut down.

No. A leader took what he wanted, what he needed. He growled, softly, the sound barely audible over their shrieking engines, the air whistling past, through them. He could feel the atmosphere's cool kiss through his desire-heated systems as he grabbed, roughly, for Starscream's pelvic plating.

"Mine," he said, brooking no refusal. His hand was rough, yet not violent, scraping over the equipment covers. In his other arm, the jet writhed, from desire warring with a dislike of containment. Seized from the air, the jet's freedom was curtailed by the heavy mass of the triple-changer. He struggled, half-heartedly. Wanting, yet, not wanting to admit to it. Aware, still, of the boundaries between them—rank and place.

Megatron's optics raced over his frame with naked hunger; his hands curling around Starscream's narrower hips with possessiveness born of respect. Not viewing the jet as a thing to be owned, but as an object to be revered, valued.

Starscream shivered, his equipment covers snapping open under the assault of his own desires.

Megatron's own body shuddered, an echo of the jet's. They wheeled across the sky in a dizzying spin. He wanted the jet—what he was at this moment, what he represented. All of Megatron's desire focalized, crystallized in this moment. Megatron's spike sheathed itself in the jet's valve, a shock of heat embracing his spike after the chill of the air.

Starscream jolted rigid, his talons curling around armor, no longer trying to push away, but to cling. The spike intruded, invaded him, pushing into him, spreading the valve lining, filling him until it drove against his ceiling node.

And just like that, their flight synched, and Megatron's power yielded to Starscream's steering, their bodies joined in a ferocious writhing mating. Megatron crushed the bronze frame against him, his hands possessive and greedy, exploring, owning the jet's contours, his hips rocking against Starscream's, their thrusters compensating faultlessly for the motion. His mouth sought Starscream's, to complete the ownership, his glossa pushing past the jet's surprised mouth, his cheekplates rubbing against the jet's.

Starscream's vocalizer bubbled with sound against him, vibrating against his chassis, the bronze talons moving to explore the heavy shoulders. The heat from their engines washed over them, warming Megatron's exploring hands around the bronze backstruts.

Megatron tore his mouth free, the wind of their flightspeed ripping the words from his lip plates. "Open."

"It is enough," Starscream said, fear lidding the desire in his optics. Megatron's order challenged his legacy. And below he could hear the shocked ripple through the Autobot ranks, enflaming him, taking his pride and casting it into a bonfire of heedless, wanton desire.

"It must be done." Megatron let the weight of tradition sink the words through the jet's objections. He looked down, the red paint of the Fallen's intricate markings smearing with the blue of his own, turning to purple, luminescent smudges. Ground and heavens joining together, red and blue. Boundaries falling away, their names, their ranks disappearing, shed like vapor. They spun in a slow spiral, first he on top, then the jet, rolling over and over, their contrails braiding into an untie-able knot.

The Fallen had explained the rite. Life and power, air and ground, joining together. No boundary, no barrier between them. Mechs joining their life forces together, a perfect union.

Starscream's mouthplates ground, his optics shuttering as he retracted his chassis armor, a line appearing along the apex of his chassis, folding itself back like a flower blooming. Megatron's retracted from sheer arousal, the green light of his spark casting shadows that danced over the jet's opening sparkchamber, blue flaring into his green, spiraling into a glowing wildfire of energy between them.

Here, the jet resisted, pushing, manipulating the spark energy, sending blue tendrils over and around Megatron's clumsy jabs. Elegance and control to Megatron's force and power. Megatron felt a surge of resentment, the resentment he'd always felt against the pre-war elite, but it was thrust aside by the infinitely delicate sensations of the spark energy interplay, green and blue swirling, joining, yet never losing boundaries, coalescing. A symbol of everything Megatron wanted—the self distinct, and infinitely mobile, infinitely reactive, joining with without losing the self entirely.

All while they sliced a slow, rolling circle in the air, a snake eating its tail, a sign of opportunity, openness. A ring embracing the whole world.

"Yes," he said, but it was not only his voice, but the higher tenor of the Vosian vibrated through him, and he could feel his own armor, through the jet's hands, his own overload magnified, clutched down on, through the jet's spasming valve. The heat of his transfluid leaked to the chill of the troposphere, the fluids of their joining raining down upon the barren world beneath like a promise, the seeds of a new Cybertron.


End file.
